Between the Lines of Fear and Blame
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Part 2 of my Stitches series. "'I've going to stitch you up, son,' Dad says. His voice is low, grating. Dean winces under the anger in it, even though it's not meant for him. Even in his pain-addled brain, he's able to sort out the very clear thought that being stitched up by a furious Winchester is not going to be enjoyable." Hurt!Dean. Fighting John and Sam. NO SLASH.


**A/N: More angst, and majorly Hurt!Dean. John and Sam are kind of jerkish in their own ways in this, John more so. Set just before Sam leaves for Stanford (before the big fight).**

**Title from "How to Save a Life"**

**Enjoy!**

They're still shouting, round and round and round like boxers in a freakin' ring, making his head spin like a carousel. The colors flare before his eyes, black and red, darkness and blood, blood, blood.

He's got to stay conscious, dammit, not let the pain lull him into a funhouse of crazy numbness and _spinning_ (it's looping now, too, big loose loops of light, inside his head, and they sharpen every time Sam or Dad shouts again).

"Damn you," Sam's saying, voice high and sharp in tone but lower in pitch, lower than Dean wants it to be, reminding him that Sam's _freaking eighteen _now, almost a man. And as stubborn a jackass as any and all Winchesters before him. "_Damn_ you. This is low, even from you."

And then Dad, low and tense. "Your brother can handle himself, Sam. A little fear wasn't going to kill him—"

"Well that _thing_ nearly did!" Sam's voice is gritty with rage. "Maybe you should have listened to me when I told you he wasn't over the cracked ribs!"

"Maybe he should have told me himself," John spits out.

Sam laughs humorlessly. "Yeah, Dad. Because Dean always tells you when he's hurt. He'd go to his goddamn grave before he'd open himself to your criticisms on his weakness. _Fine_, healthy son you've raised."

Dad breaks at that, soundlessly closes in on Sam and throws him against the wall. At least that's what Dean thinks happens, through the haze—and he wishes he could do something, but he can't do much more than groan.

Fortunately, that's enough. He hears the scuffle between Dad and Sam cease, and they're at his side again. Pieces of memory are floating back into Dean's mind, and he tries to string them together.

The ghost had operated off of fear…Dad emptied the bullets out of Dean's gun without telling him, tossed it to him—he'd tried to fire…_nothing_…the ghost closed in, confident in his terror—and Dad got his shot.

_Just not quick enough._

Even through the agony of the slashes across his chest and renewed fire in his ribs, Dean understands. Understands why Dad did it. Doesn't resent the plan. Doesn't even resent the screw-up.

Of course, Sam feels differently. Sam's downright pissed.

But then, Sam's the only one who still thinks Dean's worth something more than a patchwork entity of hunter, fighter, and occasional bait.

"I've going to stitch you up, son," Dad says. His voice is low, grating. Dean winces under the anger in it, even though it's not meant for him. Even in his pain-addled brain, he's able to sort out the very clear thought that being stitched up by a furious Winchester is _not_ going to be enjoyable.

"You disgust me," Sam's muttering, well, not really muttering—Dean can hear him across the room, through ears that are already ringing. If he could find his voice, he'd say, "_Aw, hell, Sam, just shut up,"_ but Dad's making the first stitch, and the needle jabs into the tender, scabbing skin like it's red hot.

Dean grinds his teeth until they ache, but he can't work up enough pain to shift his attention from the blinding fire that burns with every sharp _prick_ of the needle. Somewhere, behind the anguish and teeth-gritting and the flames clambering up his flesh he knows Dad isn't doing it purposely, isn't _trying_ to make this worse for him—but it's hard to remember, when every stitch is fiercer, rougher, and he figures from that alone that the fight is intensifying, but the ringing in his ears has risen to a roaring and he can't make out what they're saying anymore.

He tries to twist away from Dad, away from the fire, but he's too weak (too much blood loss, probably) and Dad isn't letting him go. And the spear strokes of fire continue, back and forth across his chest (only thing he still feels).

Finally, it stops, and the voices are going again, and he hears—"Dad, what the hell are you doing? You're practically stabbing him!"

Dad doesn't answer, which speaks volumes. There's a long pause, and then a few muffled, choked-off curses, and the bed shifts and Dad (Dean thinks it's Dad—from the footsteps he's just able to make out) stumps out of the room.

"It's alright, Dean, he's gone," says Sam's voice, and Dean knows he means to be comforting (just like Dad didn't mean to hurt him) but the edge is still there, the anger, and he winces even though it's not meant for him.

The stitches still hurt, but they're much gentler. Dean tries to speak, but nothing comes out. He's drained.

"Screw him," Sam says. Hands steady, voice shaking. Dean supposes he should be grateful, that it goes in that order, but he can't be. What he wants is to tell them both that it's alright, don't fight over _him_, of all things…tell Sam not to hurt Dad, tell Dad not to hurt Sam, not because of Dean.

And later, when he's sewed up and bandaged and the silence in the room is heavy with the words Sam and Dad won't speak because they at least want him to sleep (as though he _can_), he thinks maybe Sam is right. Maybe he _is_ good for more than hunter-fighter-bait. He's good enough for this, if they'll let him be. Good enough to go between them.

Sam wouldn't like that, but it doesn't matter. Dean just wants the fighting to end, so it's better that he be the one to fall.

He doesn't have to go very far down, after all.


End file.
